


from yesterday

by shardmind



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brief mentions of Canon Typical Torture, Gen, Platonic Hand Holding, discussion of hell trauma, discussions of anxiety, implied established deancas, rated t for torture baby!, samcas besties, sorry ma, time is nebulous so i have no idea where this occurs in canon only that it is canon, will i ever get better at tagging? no
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:46:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29970027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shardmind/pseuds/shardmind
Summary: He doesn’t remember digging his fingernails into his thigh until Cas reaches over and gently pries them off. Old habits. Cas doesn’t let go of his hand.“Hell’s a hard place to forget, Cas.”
Relationships: Castiel & Sam Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	from yesterday

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd because it's 1am on a thursday

“Do you ever think of it?”

Sam should be used to these sudden appearances by now, the subtle change in the air and whisper of wind that heralds these unprompted arrivals. He’s not, but it’s no longer as jarring as it used to be. Cas doesn't even use his wings anymore, he's just unusually silent on his feet. He’s in the doorway, still wearing the overcoat he values so highly. It’s not the same one Jimmy Novak came with, but it’s similar enough. They joke about it being a uniform but no one questions the comfort found in familiarity.

He doesn’t approach further. Won’t do so without permission. His grasp on the concept of privacy has improved over the years. 

Sam waves him in, dog-earring his page before closing the scripts of early Abrahamic mythology he’d been pouring over—it has some pretty choice explanations of angelic hierarchy that he’ll be coming back to later. 

Cas pauses before perching at the foot of the bed but doesn’t elaborate on his question. Instead, he tugs at the pressed sleeves of his coat, worrying the tan fabric between his fingers. It’s not unusual for him to get like this. Reserved. Tense. With everything they’ve been through, Sam has come to expect it.

He hates being a burden.

Sam tries his best to convince him that he isn’t one.

“Of what, Cas?” 

A moment. Two. Cas doesn’t meet his eyes as he speaks. One word.

“Hell.”

There are two things Dean doesn’t like to talk about: the last season of Game of Thrones, and Hell. Which explains why Cas came to Sam instead. His bond with Dean is more profound, so far evolved past the realms of simple friendship. So much of their communication is in silent touches, in understanding, in the fire-forged connection they share and have shared for years now. Dean doesn’t talk about hell. Not to anyone. 

“Sometimes.” Sam starts, crossing his legs beneath him. He doesn’t miss how he takes up less space in the process. There’s probably something to unpack there. “I was there for so long. On good days, it’s easy. On bad ones, I wake up half expecting to still be there, chained up and sliced open and— I know this is real. Dean’s real. You’re real. The bunker’s real. I— I know this is real,” 

Cas still isn’t looking at him, but he’s listening. Listening as Sam lies to himself. His shoulders slump slightly, eyes soft around the edges. 

“But sometimes I don’t, Cas. I wish did. I know you— uh, you fixed me, but I think a part of me will always remember what it felt like to be broken.” 

He doesn’t remember digging his fingernails into his thigh until Cas reaches over and gently pries them off. Old habits. Cas doesn’t let go of his hand. 

“Hell’s a hard place to forget, Cas.”

Cas nods and it’s hard to miss the sad smile he’s wearing even if he’s still not looking Sam’s way, eyes unfocused. Sam squeezes his hand, feeling the give of grace made flesh. 

“Did I ever tell you about when I rescued your brother?” Sam’s met with blue, deep and sorrowful and he feels his own brow pull up in sympathy. He hasn’t heard this story. He shakes his head.

“My whole garrison descended. All of us, seasoned soldiers with accolades from divine wars beneath our wings. We were chosen by Michael to save him but were too late. The seal had been broken, as was always intended. We were not told that was to be the case. I killed so many in the name of Heaven, Sam, and saw only honour. My whole form was bathed in the viscera of Hell, holding your brother’s radiance inside myself and—” Sam clutches his hand tighter, silently encouraging and Cas sighs, looking down at their joined palms. “I lost many siblings that day. I lost so many but I saved one soul. The one I loved even when I did not know what that meant. I was selfish for the first time in my entire existence, but not the last. Years later, I went back for you.

“I was resurrected stronger, more powerful. I was invincible and in my hubris, I descended alone. I fought off the denizens of Hell until, like last time, I could barely see the glow of my wings beneath the blood. I knew I was being selfish but I did not care. I would not sit idly by as my brothers tore at you for their amusement. For Dean’s sakes, for Bobby’s, for my own. I fought them both, Lucifer and Michael, like starving dogs for your body— Forgive me, that was an insensitive comparison. They met me relentlessly, ripping chunks of feathers and flesh and fire from my form, decimating hundreds of my eyes. I was blind, torn half to shreds, but I held you, raised you, knit you back together with a touch and delivered you to the place where you fell. Your soul— I—”

His fingers thread through Sam’s until they’re entwined fully. It’s a grounding touch, the kind Dean gives after their rare talks about the reality of their youth when they’re both tired of defending how much John fucked them up. Cas strokes the back of his hand with the pad of his thumb but says nothing.

“Cas, look at me.” He doesn’t, but Sam continues anyway. “I already forgave you. Don’t apologise again.” 

The angel at the foot of his bed slumps a little, still not letting his hand leave Sam’s. Backlit from the light of the open door, he looks more angelic than he has in years; sat in contemplation, regretful reminiscence, and yet persevering.

“I have been monstrous.” Cas doesn’t attempt to keep the emotion out of his voice anymore—hasn’t for years—but now he sounds empty, detached in a way he hasn’t since before Sam can remember. “I harmed those I vowed to protect, I justified evil for my own gain. I betrayed. I hurt. I’m tired. I should not sleep and yet I have nightmares.”

“Does Dean know?” Sam asks, hiding his shock behind concern. If angels don’t sleep, don’t dream, how can Cas be having nightmares? It doesn’t make any sense. Hey, if there’s anything he’s learned in this world, it’s that things usually don’t.

“Yes, we have discussed it. He thinks it’s linked to my grace. It is not news that I am—how did he put it?—not firing on all cylinders?” He raises his free hand to make quotation marks around the phrase despite the fact Sam was not born yesterday and can, in fact, tell apart the mannerism of an angel who’s existed for millennia from that of his own brother. It’s such a Cas thing to do, so ridiculously endearing. 

“Does that mean—”

“No, I don’t think unbecoming is that easy.” Taking a deep breath, Cas turns to face him. “Remember last time?”

Sam feels his lips form into a thin line. Yeah, every time he passes Kevin’s photo in the hall. “Metatron was a dick.”

He gets a curt nod in response. “Agreed.” 

“So,” Sam gives another tight squeeze to the hand gripping his own. “What _does_ it mean?”

 _What is an angel without their grace?_ He wants to ask. _Does this mean we’re going to lose you again?_

“I don’t know. My wings refuse to heal even now and sometimes my vessel experiences cravings for food, or company, or rest. I assumed it was just prolonged exposure to the two of you but—” Cas leans backwards until gravity pulls him down the rest of the way. His back connects with the mattress in a protest of springs. Cas doesn’t let go of his hand but his eyes turn to the ceiling fan, memorising the filigree of the blades. “—I don’t know where I belong now. Too much humanity for angels. Too much divinity for humans. I feel— I feel lost. Anxious, even.” 

Anxiety is something he’s all too familiar with—trauma will do that to you—but Sam had a chance at escape in the form of Stanford and the couple years of therapy that afforded him before John Winchester managed to ruin another thing in his son’s lives. Sam’s no therapist, not by any stretch of the imagination, but, in his experience, talking helps. For Cas, he’ll listen. 

“You’ll always have a home here, man. You’re family. If you think Dean’s letting you go now he finally pulled his head out of his ass and told you how he feels, you’ve got another thing coming.” Cas rolls his head to the side to smile softly at him, at their joined hands, at the book in his lap, the photo of the three of them on his bedside table. His eyes slip shut, shutting out the world like he’s just absorbing the words. Sam continues. “I know it doesn’t fix anything. I don’t even know where to start, but I want to. I want to help, Cas. Not because I feel obligated—I don’t, by the way— I want to help because I love you. I care about you. You’re family. We’re here for you and we’re gonna figure out the rest as it comes.” 

“Like we always do.” Cas adds, still smiling 

“Yeah, Cas. Like we always do.” 

Cas doesn’t let go of his hand.

**Author's Note:**

> please blame g and meg for this
> 
> i wrote this listening to the entire colour theory - soccer mommy album on repeat. like zara said, bloodstream is a sam song.


End file.
